


I Still Miss Someone

by Lillies_roses



Category: Hollyoaks
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:21:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23499688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillies_roses/pseuds/Lillies_roses
Summary: In this version of events, Harry didn’t overhear Liam and Mercedes and thus didn’t turn back to the police station/Dog.  He wasn’t stabbed and really did escape to France.  Although James tried to get in contact and to prove Harry’s innocence, with him gone it was in vain.  James was forced to move on, not knowing where Harry was and unable to make up for the regrets of those final weeks.Then, five years later James is in Paris...
Relationships: James Nightingale/Harry Thompson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	I Still Miss Someone

**Author's Note:**

> Title lifted from once again from a wonderful song, by the incomparable Johnny Cash. Although, Dolly Parton’s version is of course my favourite, because Dolly!
> 
> I never got over those blue eyes  
> I see them everywhere  
> I miss those arms that held me  
> When all the love was there  
> I wonder if he's sorry  
> For leaving what we'd begun  
> There's someone for me somewhere  
> But I still miss someone

James had always liked Paris, though he would never admit why. It was difficult to be completely immune to the air of romance that lingered over the city. He had first visited on a school trip when he was fourteen, and had been enchanted by the history, the culture, the banner of ‘love’ that it wore so earnestly. That was before certain events had sanded down his heart and helped him build walls to hide it behind. But in moments like these it was easy to recall the idealism of the boy he had been. He paused as he crossed the Pont de Arts, glancing past the myriad locks and out across the Seine. The spring sun was peeking through the clouds, casting a golden path down the middle of the river. He took a deep breath of the earthy air, letting it out through his mouth before continuing across the bridge. 

Once he reached the other side, dodging an oblivious young couple who crouched as they scratched their names into a copper padlock, James turned left and strode parallel to the river towards Shakespeare and Company. He knew it was a cliche now, but since his first visit to Paris, a green teenager with romantic illusions and lofty literary aspirations, he had made the return pilgrimage every time he came.

James ducked into a small cafe on the way, unable to wait any longer for his second espresso of the morning. As he waited at the counter a man bustled past, knocking gently into his back as he did. James was about to chastise the stranger when a scene hit his nose and he faltered. The hairs on his arms stood up as goosebumps spread across his skin, and he felt a tearing sensation deep in his stomach. He took another breath in, trying to pinpoint the gusts of memory that blew past him, the weight that seemed to settle so suddenly in his chest. James had always felt adept at controlling himself, but something erupted within him that he didn’t recognise, disparate emotions suddenly closing in. He spun around to see the back of a dark blonde head disappear through the door. He couldn’t help himself. Without thinking he rushed out behind, not waiting for his coffee, and looked frantically from left to right. The stranger was walking away, hands tucked into his raincoat.

“Harry!” James cried out, unsure what he hoped to achieve. Of all the light haired men in the world, surely he hadn’t bumped into _his_ light haired man here in a small Parisian cafe on a inconsequential Monday morning. To his wonder, the man turned back to him. Harry. It was him. He squinted in James’ direction, and his eyes widened as recognition lit his face. “James?” He murmured, and slowly walked back towards him.

Harry looked more grown up, though that shouldn’t have been a surprise. It had been 5 years since the day James last saw him. It was seared into his memory. Heavy stubble silhouetted his jaw, and his hair was slightly longer and floppier than it had been. He was still young though, still strong, still with those wide blue eyes. James’ jaw clenched, and he walked forwards until he was face to face with this ghost from his past. They looked at each other for a moment.

“God, this is… wow.” Harry’s face was fixed into a small frown, not angry but certainly hesitant.

“How are you?” James asked, though he knew no answer would satisfy. The idea of Harry living a life without him, for better or worse, was one that had long haunted him. Harry smiled. Still smiling, after everything.

“I’m good, I’m…” He stopped mid-sentence, shaking his head in disbelief. “Sorry, this is mad, ain’t it?”

“It is.” James agreed, keeping his voice measured. “I can’t quite believe that you’re really here.”

“Well, I live here.” Harry shrugged. He looked down at his feet as the pregnant pause stretched further between them. “Which way are you going?” He finally asked. James guestured down the road. “Me too.” Harry said with a shrug, and they began to walk side by side along the tree-lined street, James’ espresso forgotten on the marble counter inside.

To begin with they walked mostly in silence. James felt almost stunned by Harry’s sudden presence. His fingers itched by his side as Harry walked next to him, his arms swinging gently. What could he say? He had imagined so many times seeing Harry again, finally having the chance to say all that he had failed to say. And now he was here and James couldn't find a single word. It was Harry who finally broke the silence.

“Where are you headed?” He asked. 

“I, er…” James opened his mouth to reply, but he didn’t recognise the sound that came from it, high pitched and wavering. He cleared his throat, and started over. “I was going to go and have a look in Shakespeare and Company.”

Harry chuckled. “Course you were. Tourists, eh.” He glanced sideways at James, a playful smile pulling at his lips. James couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“Quite.” He replied. “And I’m sure you know all the local hipster shops where you can get a flat white with your copy of Infinite Jest.” Harry ran his hand across his stubbled chin self-consciously, and James added. “I like it. It’s different, but it suits you. You look good. I mean, you look well.”

“Thanks.” Harry said, a faint blush spreading across his high cheekbones. “You too.”

By the time they reached the bookshop the conversation was less stilted, almost natural. “I’ll come with.” Harry suggested, as James reached for the door handle. “I need a new book. Haven’t read anything good in ages.”

They each made their way around the teaming shelves, halting to flick through books that caught their eyes. James couldn’t keep his attention on the extensive volumes in front of him though, and he kept searching for Harry. Each time he caught a glimpse of him, his fingers running across a shelf or rifling through a hardback, James felt the same lurch in his stomach that had hit him so suddenly in the cafe. He tried to shake it, to concentrate on the task at hand, but it was in vain. Sentences of blurbs were immediately forgotten, books he’d been searching for went unnoticed.

After 20 minutes or so of browsing, James bought a few tattered paperbacks and joined Harry outside. He was standing at the top of some steps, looking over the river at Notre Dame. The sun was high, and the imposing towers cast dwarf-like shadows over the crowds below.

“Here.” James said, passing Harry a copy of Swann’s Way. “The original French. As you’re a native speaker now. It’s one of my favourites.”

Harry turned the book over in his hands as he studied the cover. “I wouldn’t go that far.” He said, “I still struggle conjugating verbs.” He looked back up at James, eyes bright in the sunshine. “Thanks though.” His smile was shy as he added. “Are you doing anything now?”

“No.” James replied. It was his last day in the city, he would take the train back to London in the morning. He had planned to spend it alone visiting his favourite sites, before returning to the chaos of home. “No. I’m completely free.”

“You wanna get some lunch?” Harry asked.

“Okay.”

“Okay." Harry repeated. "There’s a great Lebanse place ‘round the corner. Follow me.”

They were seated quickly, few other lunchtime diners in the restaurant. Harry ordered them two bottled beers and a sharing platter, chatting familiarly with the waiter in French. James looked between them, trying to keep up. His french was rusty, but he was captivated by Harry's mouth as it moved around the foreign words. When they were left alone, Harry rolled up his sleeves and leant back in his chair. “Sooo…” He began, but was interrupted as the waiter brought their drinks over. He tried again. “What are you doing in Paris?”

James took a sip of beer, suddenly very aware of his parched throat. “I was seeing Ellie for a few days.” He explained. “She lives in Lyon now, so a sojourn here in the middle works for us both.”

“What’s Ellie doing in Lyon?” Harry asked with genuine curiosity.

“She met a French man on her grand travels. They married, and now she’s down there with Antoine and their two sprogs.” James made a face. He loved his sister, but he had never approved of her taste in men. The fact that this one had taken her so far away from her family was unforgivable. “I’m going home tomorrow morning.” He added, as the waiter returned and delivered their mezze.

“How long have you been here?” James asked after a moment, a little cautiously. They had yet to acknowledge _why_ Harry was here in France and not in Hollyoaks with his father and his family. Harry picked at the label of his beer as he answered.

“Paris, almost 4 years. I moved around a bit at first but then I, er, met someone. And he lived here, so…” James was caught off guard by the drop of his stomach. He looked away, and Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Right. And is this person still around?” James kept his gaze firmly on the food before him.

“Nah.” Harry muttered, “Nah, it’s hard to keep something alive when you can’t even tell ‘em your real name.” That made James look. His head snapped back up and Harry’s eyes caught his own. He tried to discern what he saw there. Anger? Sadness? Regret?

“I’m sorry.” He whispered.

“Don’t be. Wasn’t meant to be.” Harry picked up his fork and scooped some tabbouleh into his mouth. “What about you?” He asked through his mouthful. He gestured to the hand James was using to lift his own fork, and the gold ring on his third finger. “Seems like you had more luck. Anyone I know?”

James looked down at his plate again. “Well, yes… actually. It’s John Paul.” Harry’s eyes widened for a moment, before he recomposed himself. “I’m sorry.” James repeated, “It wasn’t…”

“Hey, no need to explain.”

“I mean, I didn’t just forget about…”

“I know.” Harry interrupted again. “Me neither.” Their gazes locked once more. James could barely hold it, but he couldn’t look away. Eventually Harry shook his head and resumed chewing. “How is the great John Paul anyway?” He asked, not unkindly.

What could James say? Before he had left on Friday morning they’d had a blazing row. Another blazing row. Something about James putting his work, his family, everything before John Paul and Matthew Jesus. He hadn’t really been listening, it was getting rather tedious now. To be honest, James wouldn’t be surprised if all he was greeted with upon his return were divorce papers. If he were _really_ honest, he almost hoped that he would be. “He’s fine.” James mumbled instead. “Still slogging self righteously for pittance at the high school, but I suppose he’s happy.” James cleared his throat, dipping his fork into the hummus and lifting it once more to his mouth. “This kibbeh is really very good, Harry.” He declared, steering the conversation more obviously than he usually liked. Harry took the hint and gave a grunt of agreement as he tucked back into his own plate.

When they had both finished eating, Harry waved for the bill. James insisted on paying. “Do you need to be anywhere?” He asked as they left, with as much indifference as he could muster.

“Nah, not ‘till this evening. Got a shift at the bar but much later.”

“Right. Well, I thought I might visit Musee L'orangerie, I haven’t been in years.” James added tentatively, almost as an afterthought, “Would you like to join me?”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.” He put his hands in his pockets as they began to stroll back towards the river, shoulders slightly closer than before.

There was a short queue when they arrived at the museum. The trees on either side of them were renewing their green crowns, and the first signs of pink and white blossom were sprouting into sight. James glanced at Harry from the corner of his eye as they waited. He had his face turned towards the sun, his eyes closed. James watched him and felt the heavy weight compress his chest again as images of the last time he had seen that face pushed their way into his mind.

“Harry.” He said quietly, and Harry opened his eyes. “I just wanted… I need to take responsibility for how things ended between us. For what you had to do.” A small frown pinched Harry’s eyebrows together, but he let James continue. “What _I_ did, what I said, it was abhorrent. I went into self preservation mode. I know that’s not an excuse, and I can’t forgive myself for what you’ve missed out on. I just… I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Harry said slowly, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as he seemed to muse on something. “I mean, it’s not alright but it’s done. Everything was a mess back then, so... water under the bridge and all that, yeah?” Harry turned his back to James and walked straight through the doors. James followed behind.

Harry paid the entrance fee, giving James a half-hearted nudge with his elbow when he tried to object, and they made their way through the bright foyer into the narrow exhibition rooms. They talked as they walked, paying more attention to each other than the artworks on the wall, although James would sporadically stop to relate a fact about one of his favourite paintings or artists. A familiar rhythm developed, a comfortable flow to the conversation. Finally they found themselves in the first Water Lilies room, standing before a vast canvas. Neither spoke as they took it in. Then James heard Harry sigh. “You know,” he said softly, “I’ve lived here nearly 4 years and I’ve never actually come and seen ‘em. It’s beautiful.” James lifted his hand cautiously. He didn’t look away from the canvas as he placed it ever so gently on the small of Harry’s back. Harry leant into his touch. Only slightly, but James felt it.

By the time they reemerged the sun had vanished, and dark clouds cast sheets of rain across the pavements.

“Great!” Harry sighed, pulling up his hood as they walked back onto the road. “You know, everyone thinks Paris in the rain is well romantic but everything’s so grey.” He turned and grinned at James as he said this and James couldn’t _quite_ agree. Harry stuck his hand out to try and flag a taxi down through the small crowd of tourists on the pavement. “I’ve gotta go home and change for work.” He explained, as a black car with a soft yellow light atop pulled in through the expanding puddles. He opened the door, and hesitated for a moment. “Wanna see where I live?” He asked.

  
  


Harry’s flat was on the third floor of a pale building with peeling white shutters, above a pharmacy. The stairs were narrow and smelt of mould, and Harry apologised as he took them two at a time. When they got to his door, he let them into the living area of a small flat. He turned to James, slightly embarrassed.

“I know it’s small, but I’m not exactly making the big bucks.”

James took a step in and tried to smile reassuringly. “It’s nice.” He said faintly.

“It does a job. Place to sleep, ain’t it?” Harry made his way across the room, picking up discarded clothes from the floor and shoving them onto a chair. “Sorry about the mess.” He mumbled, as he rushed to dispense a few plates and mugs into the sink in the dingy kitchen unit. James took a moment to look around the room. A small television sat in one corner with various consoles connected, and a threadbare sofa pointed towards it. A selection of weights sat on a rug to the side. James noticed some recipes cut from magazines pinned to the fridge, glossy pictures of pasta and griddled meat. That was all there was of Harry in the room. No photographs, no nik-naks from his travels. James felt a hollowness as he took it all in.

Harry shrugged off his damp coat and then took James’, hanging them on the back of the door. James stood dumbly in the middle of the room until Harry stopped directly in front of him. He looked at Harry’s face for a moment - the line of his jaw, his lips, a small unfamiliar scar on his cheekbone - before lifting his palm gently to his cheek. “Harry…” He murmured, but didn’t get any further. Harry pushed onto his tiptoes and kissed him softly. “Come on.” He whispered, taking James’ hand and leading him through to his bedroom.

The room was painted the same dull white as the sitting room, and was just as sparsely decorated. An open wardrobe revealed clothes haphazardly draped on hangers and the bed was low to the ground, the sheets crumpled and creased. Harry rested his hand on James’ chest and looked up at him through his eyelashes. James licked his lips unconsciously, and Harry began to pull his shirt over his head. James stopped the action with a hand on his forearm. “Are you sure about this, Harry?” He asked.

Harry nodded. “Are _you_ sure?” He said with a smirk, and James frowned quizzically as he pulled his gaze from Harry’s bare torso. “I mean, I’m the one who’s bad news this time, right? I’m on the run from the police, and you, Nightingale, are an upstanding lawyer and a family man.”

“Not _that_ upstanding.” James muttered hoarsely. “At least not, not for long.” He gently pushed Harry’s shoulders, and he fell back onto the bed with a laugh. James followed, and lay himself across Harry’s body. He settled his arms on either side of his head, elbows resting in the crooks of his shoulders, hands twisting into his hair. He leant in, eyes still wide open, and kissed Harry fervently. His mouth skimmed along his jawline, the stubble rough against his chapped lips. It felt novel, the way the short coarse hairs transformed Harry’s soft skin. James moved his attentions down Harry’s body, feeling him tremble under his warm breath, his hands trailing down his stomach. He unbuckled Harry’s belt and eased his trousers over his hips and down his legs. He paused to place a kiss on the pale skin on the inside of Harry’s thighs that the sun never reached. Looking up, his breath hitched as his eyes drew to the tight fabric of Harry’s boxer shorts. Before he could reach out to touch, Harry pulled gently at James hair, guiding him back up to his mouth.

“Not going anywhere,” Harry muttered, his lips pressed against James’, “Until you’ve caught up a bit.” His fingers rushed down the front of James’ shirt, undoing several buttons before he lost patience and simply tugged it over his head. James stood up, swiftly removing his trousers and pants in one and lay back down next to Harry. They didn’t rush then, taking time to refamiliarise with each other's bodies. James ran his hands across Harry’s stomach again, which tensed and twitched. Harry kissed James’ neck, his tongue pressing into the dip of his collarbone.

“James.” Harry breathed, and James closed his eyes at the sound of his name rolling off that tongue. He pressed his lips more firmly against Harry’s skin, but Harry twisted back and reached over to open the draw of his bedside cabinet. He pulled out a pack of condoms, taking one and ripping the foil from around it, and James was reminded of the distance that had opened up between them. He may know every inch of Harry's body, but he didn’t know where it had been, what it had done in the years since they last lay together. Harry turned back, smiling shyly and placing himself in James’ hands, and he was lost again. Lost in the musky smell of Harry’s skin, his measured breaths in and out, his own pulse overwhelmingly loud in his ears. Lost in Harry Thompson.

Afterwards, they lay together in the damp sheets, legs entwined and faces close, warm breath meeting in the inches between their lips as they slipped naturally into a light sleep. When James opened his eyes again, heavy and raw from slumber, he saw Harry standing with his back to him, doing up the buttons of a smart black shirt.

“Running away again?” James murmured, and immediately regretted his words. Harry turned to him.

“My flat, James. Where could I run to?” James sat up and Harry joined him, perching on the edge of the bed. “I’ve gotta get to work.”

“Of course, I’ll just dress and you can…”

“You wanna walk me?” Harry interrupted, looking up at James hopefully. “I mean, you can come in and have a drink if you want.”

James nodded. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Harry’s smile was broad as he stood and pulled on his trousers.

Harry’s workplace was more upmarket than James had expected, a small wine bar with little round tables and candles and live music on Fridays. Harry went straight around the bar, kissing the middle-aged woman who was serving on both cheeks before introducing her to James in English. “Céleste, this is James. He’s an old friend from home. Céleste owns this place. She's my boss, but she likes to think she's my French mum.” James offered his hand to Céleste, which she took and shook delicately, scrutinising him with her glare.

“Very pleased to meet you, you have a lovely establishment here.” James said, flashing his best winning smile. Harry coughed as he tried to hold in a laugh.

“Hmm, yes.” Céleste narrowed her eyes further as she answered in a strong French accent. “Very charming. A friend of ‘arry? We have not had this before. We had better get you a drink, what would you like? _C'est offert_.”

“On the house.” Harry translated, and winked at James over his boss’ shoulder.

“Yes I know.” James snapped, then honeyed his voice again as he turned back to the owner. “That’s very kind of you. I think I’ll have a martini.” He leant forwards on the bar. “See what skills Harry here has picked up.” He raised an eyebrow at Harry, who smirked again.

“One martini, coming up.”

As the evening wore on and the bar began to fill, James relocated to a small corner table to allow Harry to concentrate on serving. James watched him from this distance, watched the effortlessness with which he joked with each customer. He had missed that easy smile, that brightness in his life. Occasionally, Harry would glance over and catch his eye, and the smile would widen. Each time, James’ heart stumbled.

They walked back to James’ hotel, unconcerned by the rain that soaked their hair and clothes. When they arrived in the room, James passed Harry a robe to change into and took a bottle of champagne from the minibar. As he poured, Harry went to the large window to take in the view. “You don’t skimp, do ya?” He said, as he looked out at the Eiffel Tower.

“Only the best.” James said dryly, offering a flute to Harry as he joined him. Harry took it, and James wrapped an arm around his stomach, pulling him back towards him. He softly kissed the skin behind his ear. Harry laughed and squirmed a little, turning his head to catch James’ lips with his for a moment. They turned back to the window, to the golden lights of the tower blinking through a haze of drizzle. “Alright,” Harry admitted quietly, “I guess Paris in the rain _can_ be quite romantic.”

It was a few hours before they finally gave in to sleep. At least Harry did, naked and exhausted in the tangle of white sheets. James couldn’t sleep. He lay on his side, unable to close his eyes, to drag them from Harry’s face. Harry’s own eyelids fluttered slightly, and James wondered what was he dreaming about? He couldn’t know. He had no idea what the past 5 years had held for Harry. What he was forced to do before he found reliable work. Where he had been before having a roof over his head. James reached out and lightly ran his fingertips over the scar on Harry’s right cheek. How had he got that?

“Stop staring at me.” Harry grumbled huskily, his eyes still closed. “It’s creepy.”

“Sorry.” James smiled to himself, “The view is just too good.” Harry smiled too, squinting his eyes open in the soft moonlight. “I thought you were asleep.” James continued to stoke his fingers softly across Harry’s cheek.

“Nah, not really.” Harry murmured. “What time is it?”

“I’m not sure. We’ve got a few hours.” He added, knowing what Harry was really asking.

“Good.”

Harry rearranged himself, laying his head on James’ chest as he shuffled back and opened his arms to him. 

“You know,” James said, absentmindedly running his hand up and down the soft skin of Harry’s back. “I always planned to bring you here.” He let out a short sigh. It felt so long ago, and yet so little had really changed. “From the moment we were properly together, I suppose. I wanted to show you Paris.”

“James.” Harry said softly after a few moments, watching his own fingers as they trailed slowly across James’ chest. “I love you.”

James stiffened. “You don’t.” He said firmly. “You don’t know me anymore.”

“I do. I know you better than anyone.”

James knew it was true. Of course it was true. “I love you too.” He said.

James’ taxi arrived before dawn, and although he planned to leave Harry to sleep and check out in his own time, he woke the moment he felt James’ body draw away. When he saw the suitcase, Harry insisted on accompanying him to the station. All too soon they were at Gare du Nord, standing in front of the passport check.

“So this is it?” Harry asked, his eyes already swimming with tears. James put down his case and gathered Harry into his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around him and his cheek resting on the top of his head. “I don’t want you to go.” Harry whispered, his voice small against James’ shirt.

James nodded and took a shaky breath, trying to control the sob that rose in his own throat. “Come with me?”

“I can’t. You know I can’t, the police...” Harry tried to look at James’ face but he simply pulled him in closer, lifting his hand to stroke the back of his hair. 

“I’ll reopen your case, find something that will exonerate you. Or I’ll come here, move here. I can do that. I just have to sort a few things at home but then I can come back.” James was aware how fanciful these suggestions sounded, but he truly meant them. He’d lost Harry too many times. For years now his life had been incomplete. He had been treading water, waiting for something to happen. This was it, he knew it. He wouldn’t waste this chance, wouldn’t throw it away again. He held Harry more tightly to him.

After a few minutes, Harry managed to extract himself from James’ embrace. He lifted his fingers to the wet patch that his tears had left in the middle of his shirt. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” James forced a smile. “I’ll invoice you for the dry cleaning when I next see you.” Harry snorted. “This isn’t the end, Harry.” He added, his fingers balled at his sides. All he wanted was to touch Harry one more time, but he knew if he did he wouldn’t be able to leave. “I _will_ see you soon.”

“I know.” Harry said, and James knew he meant it too.

James picked up his suitcase, and reluctantly walked towards the security desk. He showed his passport and ticket, and then turned back. Harry still stood there, and he smiled sadly, raising one hand in a small wave. James nodded, turned and walked away from Harry Thompson again.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, I wrote something else! That didn't take long.
> 
> So I guess this idea came from James saying he planned to take Harry to Paris. That would have been lovely, eh? James and Harry in Paris. Just a nice image.


End file.
